


A Fucking Saint

by unsettled



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Kink Bingo 2013, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is, he doesn't want to stop touching Johnny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fucking Saint

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Foot Fetish" spot on my kink bingo card. Wrote this after not having seen RnR in years, watched it again before posting and realized it skewed pretty far from what I was wanting after watching, so rather than try to change it radically I just went with it.

He's sitting, watching some show without paying it any attention when he hears the odd noise

"What the bloody hell," he says, "do you think you're doing?"

Johnny pauses in the middle of crawling through the window, an innocent look plastered on his face. "Why, Uncle Arch, I’m visiting you!" 

"Oh for – the window, Johnny? Really?" Johnny merely shrugs, utterly unrepentant, and grins as he pushes past him. 

Archy follows him back to the living room, to the couch where Johnny flops down, head tilted to the screen. "Whatcha watching?"

He has to look at the screen before he can even answer, and then he shrugs. "Nothing," he says, "just noise. Shove over." Johnny tucks his feet in, only to plop them in Archy's lap the moment he sits down. "'ey!" he shouts and shoves at Johnny's wet trainers. "Off!" 

Johnny rolls his eyes before sitting up and peeling off shoes and socks, then sprawling with his feet somehow landing right back in Archy's lap. "Happy?" he asks, at his most insolent. Archy grants him a glare, but gives in. Not without flicking the bottom of Johnny's foot though, of course, and Johnny jerks and laughs before turning his attention to the telly. 

Johnny's feet are cold, not blue but pale. He wraps his hands around one chilled foot, the ball of Johnny's foot resting in his palm. Johnny shivers and sighs, faintly. "You're all wet," Archy says, not really question.

"Been running," Johnny replies, and Archy knows better than to ask why, or from whom, unless he wants a fight, and right now … right now he'd rather leave things be. Johnny's feet are far from small, but Archy's hands are large enough to spread over them with little skin left tot spare. The bones of his ankles stand out sharply, almost delicately. He's too thin, too tired, too worn down, always, his skin stretched too tightly over his bones, and he stinks of smoke and chemicals, the toxic stench of his chasing after death. He rubs a thumb over the veins along Johnny's ankle, presses them into the arch of his foot, against the tendons the are strung as tightly as the rest of him. Johnny's toes spread, then curl, and Johnny's head falls back against the arm of the couch with a groan. 

"You can do that forever," he says. "God, you've got the hands of a fucking saint," and Archy has to laugh at that.

They sit, the telly switching programs to something else mindless that Archy is paying no mind to, his hands kneading and smoothing over Johnny's feet while Johnny lays languid and silent, for once. He tells himself he'll stop when Johnny's feet have finally warmed up, only he doesn't. Because the truth is, Johnny never really lets Archy take of him like this, like Archy wishes he could. Archy knows he's no good are really taking care of anyone, but watching Johnny hollow himself out, watching him scream defiance at the world, watching him spiral madly out of control, Archy wishes for more moments like this, more chances to just give. Wishes he was able to do better, because he knows just how many times he's stood back and let Johnny fall. 

The truth is, he doesn't want to stop touching Johnny. 

Johnny's been silent long enough, still enough, that Archy almost thinks he's fallen asleep. He considers getting up, leaving him to sleep off whatever restlessness brought him here, his fingers brushing down the sides of Johnny's feet, and then Johnny lets out a sound, a sound that could almost be mistaken for a moan, a sound that could almost be mistaken for another kind of pleasure. 

His fingers freeze for a moment, and Johnny's head comes up from where he's been leaning back, his expression soft, relaxed. His eyes meet Archy's. 

There's something in the air between them, something thick and tense that's been there for years, not entirely ignored by fully unacknowledged, Archy shying away from it every time he finds himself thinking too closely about Johnny's lips around a cigarette, about the spread of skin between Johnny's trousers and rucked up shirt, about the defiant tilt of his head when he stares up at Archy, staring him down. 

"Arch?" Johnny says, quietly, so quietly, a fracture in his voice that's filled with uncertainty, and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, but god if he doesn't want to keep touching Johnny, and fuck if he doesn't want to taste him, and - 

and he's waited too long to say anything, because Johnny is curling up into himself, knees pulled in and arms around them, bare feet clenching against the fabric of the couch. Is shutting down, shutting out, the wounded expression on his face turning into something blank, a sneer to keep everyone at bay. 

"No," he says, and Johnny can't hide his flinch at that. "I mean," Archy scrubs at his face for a second, then stands, turns the telly off. He turns back to Johnny, still huddled in the corner of the couch, and rests a hand on his knee. "Johnny..." 

He wants so badly to be the right things for Johnny, to be the better choice than drugs and random tarts at the clubs, and he knows he isn't, not really. He wants that mask gone from Johnny's face, wants Johnny happy. He slides to his knees beside the couch, presses his lips to the skin above Johnny's ankle where his trousers have ridden up. "Arch," Johnny whispers, a small, miserable sound. "Please, I-" 

"Shhhh," he tells him. Pulls his head down and kisses his forehead, strands of Johnny's hair brushing his lips. Kisses him, and Johnny makes a desperate noise into his mouth, uncurling and kissing Archy back, digging his fingers into the fabric of Archy's shirt and clinging, tugging, unbalanced. 

"Up," Johnny says, demands, "up," and yanks at Archy. "I want you over me, I want-"

Archy is only too pleased to oblige, and while the couch isn't really designed for two like this, it's enough, his knee between Johnny's thighs, Johnny rubbing against him shamelessly, hard. He shoves his hands up Johnny's shirt, exposing his stomach, running his hands over the hard planes of it, finally fucking touching Johnny the way he wants. Johnny's managed to get a hand down Archy's pants, a hand up his shirt, touching him, and Archy groans, bites into Johnny's mouth; he can't get enough of Johnny's wicked mouth, he can't. 

They fumble at each others zippers and moments later trousers and pants are shoved down enough for Johnny to buck and nearly shout when Archy presses down against him, cocks rubbing together. "Fuck, Arch!" and Archy rolls his hips against Johnny's, presses him down, sliding against him, skin dragging despite the wetness of precome between them. Johnny pants harshly into Archy's mouth, doesn't moan, just breathes like he can't catch his breath, with a hitching little noise that's almost a sob, his fingers bruising against Archy's skin. "Fuck, fuck, Archy, fucking hell, please-"

"Watch your fucking mouth," Archy mutters against his lips, smirking, and Johnny huffs out a helpless laugh at that, eyes widening as Archy grinds down harder, makes a choked sound in the back of his throat and tenses, shudders, and Archy loves this, fucking loves this, loves Johnny shaking himself apart in Archy's arms, god, better than he could have ever imagined. He feels the sudden lessening of friction as he slides into the wet, warm mess on Johnny's stomach, no doubt ruining their clothes beyond repair, and just the filthy thought of that has him swallowing down a moan as he follows Johnny down. 

*

Later, Johnny lays on top of Archy, a warm weight that's not near as heavy as he should be, and twists his legs over Archy's.

"How the fuck are your feet so fucking cold again?"

Johnny snickers agaisnt the skin of Archy's neck. "You little shit," Archy says, and kisses the top of his head.


End file.
